Diplomatic Immunity
by magicspacehole
Summary: For the second time in his miserable life, Loki is thrown from the Bifrost by an unstable sibling and discourteously deposited onto an alien planet. Chaotic and uncivilized, Sakaar is the perfect place for him to start over - which is what he keeps telling himself. Repeatedly. Until he believes it. (He doesn't).
1. Public Execution Day

There is a smell. Not quite garbage, not quite road kill. A deep rot with a sweet touch that makes you want to vomit because you know you're most likely inhaling particles of something horrible but you don't know what it is.

That was the smell Loki woke up to when he finally regained consciousness. He lay on his stomach, face smashed into a sinister-looking puddle of goo and legs pinned under some kind of metal debris. All around he could hear crashing sounds and muffled shouting.

For a while he did not move. He thought perhaps if he wished really, really hard he would wake up and be back on his settee, sipping wine and wondering vaguely which advisories from his government he would completely ignore that day.

Nothing happened other than his legs started to ache.

The memory of his father dying and the confusion of finding out he had a sister he never knew about - who, seconds after they met, tried to kill him - weighed heavily in his heart. Or maybe it was the knife she'd stuck into his chest. Yes, that was it. He could feel the cold steel poking through his armor.

He opened his eyes and immediately regretted the decision. The Bifrost had apparently deposited him onto a giant landfill, with every manner of debris piled as far as the eye could see. Massive holes dotted the sky, spewing out continuous streams of refuse in an almost calming way, like watching a fountain, only smellier.

If he was honest with himself - which, let's face it, was highly unlikely - he would say being thrown unceremoniously into a pile of trash was what he deserved. And as he ripped the dagger out of his chest a tiny thought formed in the back of his mind: _This is your fault._

 _But it isn't_ , said his ego. Not really. How was he supposed to know stashing his adoptive father on Earth would result in the old man expiring? Or that his death would release the Sister from Hell (literally)?

And the day had started out so nicely.

It was not the first time Loki found himself adrift in the cosmos. When he was last stranded in space he ended up in a horrible little place called Knowhere, where he had fallen through the roof of one of its sketchiest bars, which had promptly caught fire due to its contact with the Bifrost, which then resulted in a considerable amount of threats upon his life, followed by a lot of running and hiding. It was a generally unpleasant experience.

This place, somehow, was even worse.

In the distance he could see what looked like a city. It was hard to tell, as the atmosphere was clouded with dust and pollution. Mountains and valleys of trash stood between him and whatever was on the horizon and there was no telling the distance. But he knew as soon as he found civilization it wouldn't take him long to come up with some clever plan to find his way back home or, more preferably, somewhere far away from wherever his maniacal, over-powered "sister" happened to be.

So he stood up to his full height, straightened his armor, and headed toward the city.

He took two steps before something heavy hit him on the head and sent him tumbling down the mountain into an unusually organized pile of animal carcasses.

Now Loki, God of Mischief, son of Odin, King of Asgard, was normally an expert at dealing with tricky situations. He was the one who - when his brother and friends got themselves into a spot of trouble _every time_ they went somewhere - would quickly formulate a strategy for escape and carry it out to perfection. And when he ended up locked in Asgard's dungeons after the fiasco on Earth, he managed to put himself on the throne only a few months later.

But at the moment Loki, God of Odin, son of Asgard, King of something-or-other, could barely remember his own name. It took everything in him not to pass out again. There was no time to think or strategize. He had barely figured out which way was up before someone had him bound in chains.

He was yanked roughly to his feet and shoved forward through a swamp of animal remains and out into some sort of pathway. They pulled him through the streets like a horse being pulled by the reins, and none of the people they passed on the road seemed to think that there was anything remotely odd about it, as if there was always someone being dragged down the street against his will.

Once he was upright and moving he considered attempting to devise an escape plan, but before he could get very far he was overcome with the sudden urge to vomit.

"What is that _smell_?" he heard himself say out loud.

One of his captors chuckled. "That you, mate."

"Friends," he said as their laughter died down, "surely we can come to some sort of agreement? There is no need to chain me up like-"

Someone hit him on the head again.

 _Now_ he was annoyed. The strange creatures that surrounded him seemed dim-witted, or at least they sounded like it. Peasants of some kind, most likely. Scavengers. He decided it would be quicker just to take them all down, then make his escape with a new weapon or two in tow.

He stopped suddenly, making the group around him pause. One of his captors reached for the chains but he pulled at them first, bringing the largest of the idiots down to the ground like a sack of Asgardian potatoes. He was on the others before they knew what had happened.

The fight was brief; they were even weaker than they looked, though their weapons were surprisingly effective. He grabbed a few daggers from one of his unconscious victims (or possibly dead - he couldn't tell and didn't care) and what appeared to be some kind of taser, stashed them away, and bolted down the path.

As he got closer to the city the stench of waste gave way to a far more pungent odor of sewage. There were people everywhere, selling their wares, dancing in the streets, wearing masks. A persistent drumbeat sounded from every direction. He couldn't tell if he had stumbled upon some sort of celebration or if that was just the way people on this planet typically behaved. _So uncivilized_ , he thought as he stole a rag from someone's laundry and wiped the blood and animal bits off of his armor.

The city was an odd combination of rubbish piles and living spaces, as if the inhabitants had just built their homes right into the landfill and made their living off of whatever they could find in the area. Even the buildings themselves were made out of refuse, though they seemed to get nicer and larger as he made his way toward the city center.

The stream of dancers were flowing in one direction and he followed, disguising himself along the way. It took three tries to get a feasible disguise in place; half the time he couldn't tell heads from limbs and there was no easily discernible fashion to copy. Just an unnecessary amount of colorful headdresses, masks, armor, and - _gods_ , did they make their clothes out of trash too?

"What's going on?" he shouted over the music to the person beside him.

"Don't you know? It's Public Execution Day!"

"It's _what_?"

He took a closer look at the crowd. Many of the peasants held crudely drawn signs that said things like "NO ONE ESCAPES" and "JUSTICE FOR ALL." Some just had pictures of gallows.

The crowd made its way toward a large building that looked like it was constructed out of pieces of smaller, uglier buildings, smashed together to create one single monstrosity. It towered over the other structures as if it was meant to be visible from any point in the city. Why in the Nine Realms anyone would want to make the thing so prominent was beyond him-

-until the giant, thousand-foot hologram of a flamboyantly dressed humanoid appeared right in front of it.

The crowd cheered at the sudden arrival of a massive man out of nowhere as if they had been waiting for him. Loki stared stupidly with his mouth open. The ridiculousness of it all made him dizzy.

Then he inconveniently recalled the statue he had built of himself back in Asgard. _No,_ said his ego. _That's different. For one thing, mine's smaller_.

Somehow that thought made him feel worse.

"Sakaarians!" the man proclaimed, "welcome! Welcome to the seven-hundred and thirty-fourth bi-annual Public Execution Day!" He paused at length to allow for cheering. The face was blurry but Loki could tell the man loved the attention. "We have a great one for you today! Wait 'til you see."

"Who is that?" Loki asked another stranger in the crowd.

"What're you new here or somethin'?"

"Yes. New." He smiled kindly. It was extremely difficult.

"That's the Grandmaster. He's in charge here."

Loki figured that much. "And where is 'here' exactly?"

"Sakaar!" she said with excitement.

The words meant nothing to him. He had never heard of any Sakaar or a Grandmaster. Who the hell would call himself "Grandmaster," anyway? The type of person that makes thousand-foot holograms of his own image, of course. ( _Statues are different_ , his ego reassured him).

He was starting to think he was even further from home than he had assumed, which was just fine with him, truth be told. Let Thor deal with Hela and the whole family drama thing. He'd make his own way. Again.

The parade of people terminated at the steps of the revolting skyscraper, where a large platform was built in the middle of what must have been the city square. Its base was lined with guards wielding spears, and in the center, covered with hoods, were the condemned. There were five of them in a line, dressed in colorful costumes in an obvious attempt to add insult to injury. The Grandmaster stood center-stage. Sequined cape sparkling in the sunlight, he raised his arms high in a gesture of welcome.

Loki had no desire to see the show. He had other plans. Slinking around the crowd, he rendered himself invisible and attempted to infiltrate the building. A large neon sign plastered right above the main entrance read "CONTEST OF CHAMPIONS: |10| DAYS." The doors, large steel panels painted bright purple, opened and shut every few seconds as an array of people filed in and out.

He snaked his way inside just as the crowd started cheering. The executions had apparently begun. There was no shortage of guards here even with the event going on, so he was careful to remain hidden.

The first thing he noticed when he made his way inside was a large purple fountain built in the middle of the lobby area. It was difficult not to notice - it took up so much space that he had to walk around it to get anywhere. Upon closer inspection he realized that the statue at the top of the fountain was the Grandmaster, depicted as a god-like beast of a man: mostly naked, wielding a spear and two swords, and spewing water from...

For the second time that day Loki found himself staring stupidly with his mouth open. "Ostentatious" was apparently not a word in the Grandmaster's vocabulary. Nor was "exaggerated."

The second thing he noticed was that the inside of the building was massive. High, vaulted ceilings covered the first floor, with twenty-foot wide corridors snaking off in every direction. It was not possible. From the outside the structure looked like it was, at most, a hundred feet wide. Loki was tempted to contemplate the physics of this conundrum but thought better of it. He was, _he_ thought, learning to take things in stride.

He decided to pick a corridor and explore, and was just thinking how lax the security was before he stepped over a threshold and fell to the ground, electricity whizzing through him like thousands of little lightning bolts. As he lay on the floor, everything around him moving in slow motion (as it tends to do during such horrid scenes), he realized that this was possibly one of the most embarrassing moments of his life. Well, waking up in a pile of trash was pretty bad, though no one was around to see that. But nothing was worse than being tossed like a rag doll by the Hulk. Thank the gods he never had to see _that_ hellish monster again.

No, this ranked as a solid #2 in most embarrassing moments. Maybe he could murder all the witnesses and never have to think about it again. It was an option.

Whatever barrier had so ruthlessly attacked him apparently removed his disguise because guards were running at him from all directions. He got unsteadily to his feet and braced for a fight, pulling knives out of hiding places as quickly as he could. But before the guards could reach him someone shouted and they froze mid-attack.

"THERE you are!"

The voice came from behind. Loki's mind was still reeling from his battle with the corridor and it took him a second to realize that he recognized it.

It was the Grandmaster.

He turned around slowly and attempted an innocent smile, which was difficult to pull off with a dagger in either hand. It was at that moment he realized there was still blood on his armor. Perfect.

"You must be the Contraxan ambassador. Welcome, welcome. You know who _I_ am, of course."

"Yes. Of course."

"Great! Great." The Grandmaster put an arm around him and steered him through the lobby. "So how's Contraxia these days?"

He had no idea what or where Contraxia was. "Wonderful."

"I hear you have a new product line? I'll have to come try it sometime." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. It was disturbing. Then he pointed at the blood on Loki's chest. "How'd you like the Execution? Were you in the blood-spatter section? That's the best section. You really get a feel for it."

"Yes. Definitely."

"Is this your first time coming to the Contest of Champions? You're gonna love it. The Kree are here too… I think. You know Kree - they're probably off praying somewhere. And the Princess of A'askvaria is here of course. Just warning you," he whispered loudly, "don't stare at her chins. Aha. Ahaha."

He said all of this very fast while directing Loki through the building and into an elevator. An entourage of guards followed them inside and he was pinned between the Grandmaster and a very unpleasant-looking female who kept eyeballing him suspiciously.

"You're gonna love your room," the Grandmaster went on. "I heard how you like a good view."

"Thanks." Sure. Why not?

There was a *ding* sound and the doors opened to an explosion of music and lights. It wasn't even good music. Nothing like the drums and horns they had on Asgard. It was more like that horrid electronic-sounding rubbish Tony Stark played in the cell where Loki was imprisoned after the Battle of New York. Every hour Stark would come down to the basement, bang on the cell door, and ask him how the music was, then proceed to turn it up loud enough for him to want to stab himself in the ear.

This was worse. Much worse.

The room was full of people who were, admittedly, much better dressed than the rabble outside. There was more variety here too: he recognized a few species from his own galaxy, at least.

"Okay so uh… Well, have fun!" The Grandmaster and his entourage wandered off, leaving Loki standing there like an idiot. He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing so he took refuge on an unoccupied lounge chair.

At that point he realized he could do one of two things: either a) search the city for a viable means of transport and escape, or b) stay here and see where fate takes him. He considered returning to Asgard, but he was nowhere near ready to deal with the emotional fallout of his father dying ( _which I most definitely do not care about_ , his ego lied) and they certainly were not going to welcome him back as their king.

Then he remembered Hela. He would have been more surprised at the discovery of his father's greatest secret if he hadn't already lived through the revelation of his father's (apparently) second greatest secret, which was him. He didn't want to think about it. Not right now.

Instead, he wanted to snoop around this garbage heap of a palace and see if he could find a ship.


	2. Minor Inconveniences

Loki found out that night what the Grandmaster meant by a "good view," and it had nothing to do with windows.

The intimidating female guard that accompanied the Grandmaster everywhere had cornered him just as he was about to leave. "I'm showing you to your quarters," she stated. It wasn't a question or an offer. More like an and-you-get-no-choice-in-the-matter sort of statement.

" _Fantastic_ ," he said, hoping the sarcasm was evident. "I should like to say goodnight to our gracious host first."

"Sure. If you want. But he won't remember any of it tomorrow." She jabbed her thumb behind her at the corner where the band was playing. The Grandmaster sat in a hover chair, which was upside-down, and was reaching above his head to play the keyboard with one hand while attempting to drink a right-side-up cocktail with the other.

"Yeah alright," he muttered.

She took him through a maze of corridors until he was sufficiently confused and disoriented, and then pointed at the very last door at the end of a short hallway. "You," she said, opening the door.

"Thanks, but-"

"I'm watching you." She narrowed her eyes and stared at him for a few seconds, then walked away.

"Marvelous."

He turned around and entered the room and immediately noticed that he was not alone. "Who are you?" he demanded, dagger raised. It took a few seconds for him to register what he was seeing.

Three females stood naked around the bed. Only one of them was humanoid. The others were... not.

They did not appear to be remotely fazed by his threat. "Grandmaster said you like variety," one of them giggled.

"Hrrggh" was all he could get out.

When they started to approach him in what they probably thought was a seductive manner (but was honestly quite terrifying) he managed to find his voice. "Thank you, but I'll pass."

They looked confused. "Are you sure?"

Prostitution was not illegal or unusual on Asgard, but it was considered distasteful. Sex was seen in a more poetic light, like the art of good conversation. Those who had to pay for it clearly did not have the talent required to procure pleasure by other means. Loki personally had no interest in prostitutes. He considered himself more of a romantic.

Also he wasn't really into tentacles.

"I'm sure." He stood aside so that they could leave. "Tell your boss we had a wonderful time," he added when they started to look suspicious. "I will assure that you are paid for your services."

That seemed to appease them, and they left. He stood there for a second in silence. There were no guards chasing him, no attacking corridors, no scavengers with chains. He was safe and alone.

He collapsed onto the bed.

The stress-free moment lasted about 0.05 seconds before his mind switched to autopilot and the horrid memories of the day invaded him. Despite being extremely unpleasant, the adventure he'd had on Sakaar was useful for one thing: keeping him distracted. Now, alone in silence, he had time to reflect on that one incomprehensible idea he still could not fully grasp:

Father was dead.

 _Dead_. Gone. No longer existing.

And still, even at the end, Loki was his son. Despite all he had done to betray and anger Odin, the man never once stopped seeing him as a son.

It was annoyingly out of character for the Odin Loki had pictured in his head the last several years - the version that had lied to him his whole life and abandoned him and never really loved him in the first place.

He stared at the ceiling, eyes burning.

More distractions. That was what he needed.

He got up and wandered around the room. There was a bar that took up the entire eastern wall, filled with bottles of liquids that did not look safe to drink in any way, shape, or form. He opened one at random and sniffed the contents. It smelled like rocket fuel mixed with cherries.

Whoever designed the place was either color blind or intoxicated at the time. There were about a dozen chairs, chaises, and sofas of different colors and patterns. The windows were tinted pink, which made the hellish landscape outside look like a hellish landscape, only pink. A panel on the wall had the options "off," "lights," and "disco."

There was a white door in the corner which was most likely the bathroom. He opened it, hoping to find a shower so that he could finally wash off the bile and blood that were, by now, caked onto his skin.

"What the-"

He really, at this point, should not have been at all surprised by the fact that there was a giant statue of the Grandmaster in his washroom (this one completely naked), or by the over-sized hot tub in the corner that was filled with yet another set of prostitutes of a variety of genders and species. There were what appeared to be servants in the room as well, and before he could react they were all over him, attempting to remove his armor.

He stifled the automatic attack response he'd had upon their approach. The last thing he needed was a pile of dead servants. Besides, the prospect of a warm bath was far too tempting at that point.

"I will not require your services tonight," he told the party occupying the hot tub. "You can leave." The authority in his voice must have been convincing because they left without question.

Then he turned to the servants. "I can handle it from here, ladies."

"You are still clothed," one of them said, looking confused.

"Thank you, but I can undress myself, I think. Do visitors normally receive such lavish treatment?"

"Of course!" said another one. "Guests of the Grandmaster are given the highest regard."

"Exactly how many guests has the Grandmaster invited to the... the-"

"The Contest of Champions?"

"Yes, that."

"Oh, thousands of celebrities and officials attend from all over the Galaxy. Shall we have new clothes brought up?" she added, pointing to the blood on his chest that was apparently noticeable to everyone in the universe.

"That would be wonderful, thank you."

They left and he was finally, mercifully, alone.

The bath was glorious, even with a naked stone Grandmaster staring at him from the corner of the room like something out of a nightmare. Bizarre as they were, the accommodations were more than sufficient. They were not up to Asgardian standards, of course, but given that he was rolling around in refuse only hours ago, he was not going to complain.

Like most beings in the universe, Loki had his best ideas in the bath. As he dumped an array of fragrant oils into the water for the hell of it, he considered his options, hoping the answer would come to him in a stroke of genius, as most things did.

Odin was dead. Thor was most likely dead too, if Hela managed to overpower him. And if she had made it to Asgard, she would be unstoppable.

Even if he wanted to return home, he couldn't. He was stuck on an alien planet (again) with no means of transport. He didn't even know what galaxy he was in.

No matter what he decided to do, it was important that he did not, under any circumstances, reveal his true identity. He did not want to risk word getting around that he had any connection to Asgard, nor did he want Asgard catching wind of him being here. Who knew whether Hela would try to find him in the future?

He tried to tell himself that he wasn't intimidated by her, but he was. She was terrifying. Absolutely, horribly terrifying. He had never seen power like that and it made him feel jealous and fearful at the same time. He decided he would be safest on Sakaar for the time being.

Perhaps finding a way into the Grandmaster's entourage was a worthwhile endeavor. Befriend him, gain his trust, learn his secrets so that he could be blackmailed later if necessary... As long as he kept his head down and did not draw attention to himself, he would be fine.

* * *

A few hours later Loki headed down to the lobby. He figured it was a good idea to get to know the place he might call home and to pinpoint all of its weaknesses for future reference. And he had unfinished business with a certain corridor.

After an inappropriate amount of snooping around he had mapped out most of the first floor and found a wall panel that provided access to the mainframe. The security system was far more advanced than he expected, but he had no need to infiltrate it. Not yet, anyway. He did manage to disable the protocol that controlled the internal laser grid, allowing access to every part of the palace.

On his way back through the lobby he caught sight of a group of people in fine dress: a large man adorned in gold-colored robes was surrounded by several regal-looking women. They appeared to be arguing with the guards. Loki did not pay much attention to them until part of the conversation drifted over to him.

"No, there must be some sort of mistake. I'm an ambassador! The Grandmaster is expecting me."

"Uh-huh," said a guard.

"This is ridiculous! I am the representative of Contraxia, you stupid peasant. I'm here to see the games!"

This was bound to happen. He should have been prepared for it.

"We'll see about that. You're coming with us." The guards poked their spears at the ambassador and his attendants and forced them toward the lift.

Loki had a sudden idea. And it was a very _Loki_ sort of idea, too.

"Ah! There you are! I've been looking for you." He sauntered over to the group. "You must be the Contraxan ambassador! Excellent. The Grandmaster is waiting for you."

"I thought _you_ were the ambassador," said a guard.

"What? No no no. I've been sent by the Grandmaster to _welcome_ the ambassador." He gave the Contraxan a warm smile. "Right this way."

The guards did not move. He put his face right up to the tallest one and sneered. "Do you really want to embarrass the Grandmaster this way? I'm sure he'll want to hear how his guests were treated upon their arrival."

They backed off. Loki put an arm around the ambassador and led him down a corridor, out of sight of the guards and everyone else in the lobby.

"Thank you," the man said. "I have _never_ been treated so rudely."

"I apologize, Your Excellency. I assure you this was a simple misunderstanding." That was true, actually.

"I hope so. I would hate for trade relations with Sakaar to be threatened by such an unfortunate incident."

Once they were alone and in the right place Loki stopped them. "So tell me, Ambassador. What exactly does Contraxia make? What is your commodity?"

The man looked confused. "Make? We don't 'make' anything. We trade in pleasure." He gestured toward his servants. "I thought everyone knew that. Anyway," he snapped his fingers at one of the women and she stepped forward. "This should be sufficient enough to repay you for your assistance. Now show me to the Grandmaster."

Loki smiled. "Ah, yes. About that." He drew his dagger and seconds later the ambassador fell to the floor with a thud, throat slit cleanly from side to side. It was an unceremonious death, hastily executed but executed nonetheless. He wiped his hands off on the man's robes and turned to the females. "Will you be joining him?"

They did not appear to care either way. One of them prodded the ambassador's body with her foot. Another shrugged. They seemed to have no love for their master.

"Off you go then," he whispered.

They ambled off toward the lobby. Loki slammed a button on the wall and a trash chute opened. He stuffed the ambassador's body inside and closed the hatch.

Problem solved.

His spirits somewhat elevated, he headed back to his room, where he decided to brave some of the beverages stashed in his personal bar. He was starting to miss the comforts of home and wanted to enjoy the fruits of his labor (if you counted killing a guy you were impersonating as 'labor' - which, of course, he did).

He bounded into the room, checked for stray prostitutes, then chose a blue bottle from the bar and hoped for the best.

Asgardians could hold their drink better than anyone - even Loki had developed this basic skill, though he wasn't Asgardian _per se_. But whatever it was that he tried was definitely _not_ a normal liquor. It stung like needles and made him gag. Thank the gods Thor had not been there to see that, or he would never hear the end of it.

The red and purple bottles were not much better. But he kept going because every second spent drinking was one less second he had to think about his father or his brother or anything else that plagued his conscience.

After an indeterminate amount of time during which he became astoundingly drunk, there was a knock at the door. He ignored it at first because he wasn't entirely sure whether it was real or a hallucination, but then the door opened on its own and there stood the Grandmaster's personal bodyguard, her lip curled in a snarl.

"The Grandmaster demands your presence."

"Fantastic. Another party?"

"No."

He reached for his glass but she pulled it away from him.

"You know," *hic* "you are very rude."

"Thank you."

She stood there looking at him until he finally got up and followed her to the lift. They rode up together, the woman staring at him the whole time with a nasty grin that made him nervous, even in his inebriated state.

"So what's your name?" he said to kill the awkward silence.

"Why the hell would I tell you that?"

"I'm an ambassador. If I want to know the name of the person assigned to protect me, I should have it."

"I am not assigned to protect you. I do the Grandmaster's bidding, not yours. And right now, the Grandmaster demands your presence."

"Right. Don't you get tired of calling him that? Does he have an actual name?"

She rolled her eyes. "The Grandmaster is the Grandmaster. That's all you need to know."

When the doors opened she pushed him roughly out of the lift and into a room he had not seen before. It was mostly empty except for a large number of soldiers lining the walls. The Grandmaster sat right in the middle, flanked by two beautiful women carrying massive guns.

"Topaz! Finally."

"'Topaz?'" Loki chuckled under his breath. She gave him another push. "Ow."

Something was off here. He could feel it.

"Grandmaster!" he exclaimed. "How nice to see you again!"

"You're late, but that's okay. We can ignore that - this time. Ahaha." He followed this with an extraordinarily awkward silence, then finally stood up and took what Loki concluded must be his proclamation stance. "Did you like your room?"

"It was perfect."

He narrowed his eyes. "Really? 'Cause someone told me you shooed away the escorts I so graciously provided for you."

Loki knew there was a chance they would become suspicious of him at some point, but he was ready for it. "Yes, the trip from Contraxia is so very exhausting. I just felt like a good rest. Surely you understand?"

"Yeah. Sure, sure. Well, no. Contraxia is only like two star systems away. It can't take _that_ long to get here, I imagine?" He looked at Topaz for confirmation. She nodded in agreement.

He could feel his smile faltering. "The accommodations are lovely," he said, hoping to change the subject. "I must thank you for your gracious hospi-"

Four guards walked in carrying a large bag between them. They marched across the room and set the bag down at the Grandmaster's feet.

"-tality."

This was going in a bad direction. And the look on Topaz's face was most unnerving. She handed her master some sort of opalescent staff, which he wielded with entirely too much excitement.

"I don't like being lied to. I really don't. It's one of my things."

"I assure you, Grandmaster, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Topaz gave the object between them a rough kick and The Contraxan ambassador's body rolled out of the bag and onto the floor.

"Yes well... I _may_ have embellished a bit." He flashed an innocent smile. "I'm not actually the ambassador."

The Grandmaster rolled his eyes. "Well that was obvious."

Loki's mind went into overdrive. He was now, as the humans say, royally screwed. He started searching for exits and counting hostiles while running through a list of plausible excuses. This was made difficult by his being slightly more than a little tipsy. "It was a mistake, I assure you."

"Mm. Disappointing. So you're just _nobody_ then? And what am I supposed to do about this?" He nudged the ambassador's body with his foot.

"I am _not_ nobody. I am a _king_." It rolled right off of his tongue, out of his mouth, and into the open before he could stop himself.

The Grandmaster blinked slowly a few times. Finally he said, "well that's uh... less obvious. King? Really?"

 _Say no. Just say no_. _Say you were joking_. "Yes."

More staring. An eyebrow went up. "Of what, exactly?"

"A tiny little planet on the other side of the galaxy. You will not have heard of it."

The Grandmaster made a face as if he was trying to comprehend the impossible idea that there was something in the universe he didn't know and was horribly offended that such a notion would even exist.

"What's it called?" he asked.

Loki considered making up a planet, but he was too drunk to think of a decent name. Maybe a minor Xandarian colony. That would be acceptable. Or a Cotati moon. There were hundreds of those. He just had to name a random one-

"Terra."

 _Shit_. What in the Nine God-Awful Realms would make him say that? _Everyone_ knows Terra.

The lunatic tilted his head slightly, then glanced at Topaz, who shrugged. "Never heard of it," he mumbled.

 _Thank the universe_. "Yes I am the king there. And even in such a remote part of the Galaxy we heard tell of the Contest of Champions. I did not want to miss such a-"

"More lies. I don't like it." He stood up and raised his staff. Loki had the feeling he had slightly underestimated the this man and was about to pay the price. "Ambassador, or whoever you are, you are accused of really annoying me. I hereby sentence you to-"

"Loki! My name is Loki, alright? I arrived here accidentally. I snuck into the palace and you mistook me for the ambassador."

The Grandmaster paused, the end of his staff inches from Loki's chest. "Finally, some answers," he said.

Loki's ego assured him that had he not been so inebriated, he would not have given up so easily. He bowed his head. "Forgive me, Grandmaster. I have wronged you." He thought he might be laying it on a little thick, but the lunatic seemed receptive, so he continued. "I only wanted to fulfill my greatest wish - to see the Contest of Champions in person and to experience Sakaar in all its... splendor. Please let me know how I can mend the rift between us."

The Grandmaster looked him up and down in an appraising sort of way. He felt suddenly like one of the prostitutes he had dismissed earlier. It was _that_ sort of look. "This 'Terra...' What's the deal? What's your thing? What do you do? Do you have any - you know - sway? Are you good for the Units?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, Sir," Loki muttered.

Topaz rolled her eyes again. "He's asking if you're rich."

"Yeah." The Grandmaster pointed at Topaz and nodded.

"Oh. Yes, very rich. And we have an incredibly advanced-"

"Great!" The Grandmaster stood up and handed his staff back to Topaz, who had a look of utter disappointment on her face. "We can forgo the execution for now."

"Thank you, Grandmaster. Wait. 'For now?'"

"Well I don't know how they do things on Terra, but here on Sakaar it's illegal to murder diplomats. Most of the time, anyway. I mean, I can't just let you go."

Loki had a sudden urge to kill the idiot then and there. He fought it. _Hard_. "What are you going to do with me?"

The Grandmaster put an arm around him and steered him across the room. "Let's not worry about that," he said. "Let's think about what _you_ can do for _me_. Do you have any skills? Other than being a king and killing people, I mean."

He hesitated. That was pretty much his entire M.O. "I think you will find that I am extremely versatile," he lied. "I can be of great use to you."

"That's what I like to hear."


	3. Procurement

a/n: Sorry for the delay. Story not abandoned! Lost job, was homeless for a while, etc etc. Back now. Thanks for the reviews! I really appreciate it.

At some point the palace servants had brought Loki a change of clothes. He found them neatly folded on the bed when he returned from his almost-execution, along with several hundred other outfit combinations hanging in a closet that he was 98% sure was not there before. How they managed to replicate his original clothing so closely was a mystery considering he was still wearing it.

Sakaarians were, thankfully, cape-wearers, and Loki was pleased to see that they had included a nice yellow one for him. He would have felt horribly out of character without it. The rest of the outfit was acceptable, though there was a distinct lack of green.

He dared, for a moment, to let himself believe that his circumstances were improving. He wasn't dead, for one thing. And he didn't smell like refuse anymore. He was also now posing as the King of Earth, which he found personally hilarious.

But even so, he was walking that fine line between having the patience to play the Long Game on one side, and giving up and murdering everyone in the building on the other. _Just days ago you were an actual, real king_ , his ego kindly reminded him, _and now you're bowing down to some idiot trash lord who wants to use you as a servant. Go you. Well done._

 _I know exactly what I'm doing_ , he lied.

 _No you don't. You haven't known what you were doing since you let those Jotuns into Odin's vault._

"IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE FUNNY!"

And now he was talking to himself. Thankfully he was alone, so there were no witnesses to his sudden outburst of lunacy.

 _I'm embarrassed_ for _you_ , said his ego.

That was the moment a giant hologram of the Grandmaster's face appeared out of nowhere.

"Argh!"

"Hey, 'Your Majesty,'" said the face. "Who are you talking to?"

"Er- no one."

"Uh-huh... Well I have a job for you. Get up here."

"But I was _just_ -"

The image disappeared.

"-there."

He sighed. Just when he thought he was finally getting used to this gods-forsaken place some new idiotic thing would happen to make him question whether he had actually landed on a planet or was, in fact, still drifting somewhere in space, hallucinating due to a lack of oxygen. At this point he would have preferred the latter.

He changed into one of his new outfits (with cape) and made his way up to the Grandmaster's suite, fully aware of the fact that his entire stint on Sakaar so far had been 10% killing people and 90% riding up and down lifts. He considered sending a duplicate this time, just in case the idiot tried to off him again, but he did not have the energy to conjure one. You have to be in the mood for that sort of thing.

Thankfully the room was not filled with guards or attractive women with guns, though Topaz was still proudly wielding the Staff of Foreboding. She leered at him when he walked in.

The Grandmaster seemed to be in some sort of mood. He had his arms crossed and was tapping his foot like an impatient child. "I'm annoyed again," he complained loudly.

Loki bowed. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Yeah, you should be. We have a problem."

"How can I help?"

"Well, as we established this morning, you are _not_ the Contraxan ambassador."

"Correct."

"Yes, I know it's correct. I wasn't asking. I was telling. Shut up and let me finish. Anyway, we had a deal with Contraxia, which you would have known if you actually were the ambassador. Do you have any idea what Contraxia exports?"

Loki hesitated.

The Grandmaster rolled his eyes. "Okay _now_ I'm asking a question. You can talk."

"'Entertainment,' from what I understand."

"That's right. And a particular kind of entertainment, too - the kind that I now find myself in very short supply of six days before the Contest of Champions. This is not good. Not good. Fix it."

"I'm sorry?"

"FIX IT! _Now_. The rest of the delegations will be arriving tomorrow. How am I supposed to keep them entertained for the next week _without entertainment_?"

This was ridiculous. Surely he was not asking Loki, an actual king, to find him escorts?

"Sir, are you asking-"

"Find me escorts."

He sighed. "As you wish, Grandmaster."

"And music."

 _How the hell..._ "Yes, sir."

"And booze."

He walked away and Loki stood there, staring at the back of his head, wondering if he could throw his dagger accurately enough from that distance to bury it in the man's skull.

Topaz appeared beside him. He had a suspicion that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

"Does dealing with him get any easier?"

"No," she said, and thrust a stick of plastic at him. "Take this."

"What is it?"

"Money. Unless you were planning on paying for all of that yourself?"

Loki ripped the stick from her hand. "Where am I supposed to find all of this? How the hell am I to get music and drinks and... escorts on such short notice?"

She shrugged. "Try the Purple District. South of the city."

"You know, there were plenty of 'amenities' in my suite when he thought I was the ambassador. Where did they go?"

"The Grandmaster hates the Contraxans. Those were the cheapest hookers he could find. It was meant to be an insult." She chuckled. "They would not be suitable for his guests."

"Great."

* * *

The Purple District turned out to be the size of a small city itself, with a seemingly unlimited selection of shops, bars, and nightclubs, none of which looked remotely appealing to Loki.

Within the first five minutes of his foray into the District he saw three bar fights, was solicited for sex at least twice, and watched a street urchin stab an old man and steal his shoes. It made him long for the grace and elegance of Asgard, where people acted honorably and pursued the finer entertainments, like axe-throwing and drinking out of barrels.

He scoured the area in search of the most expensive-looking bar, which was difficult in a city made of trash, and finally settled upon a place sandwiched between Pixel's Brothel and ScrapperWare Supplies called Bar-On-Scrap-Heap-12.

That was his first mistake.

The establishment was crowded and noisy. The patrons seemed a higher class than the peasants outside, but they were rowdier than necessary and apparently not shy about public displays of affection, in which many of them were currently engaged.

He took a seat at the bar and signaled the bartender. There was a large amount of the Grandmaster's money in his pocket and he was damned if he wasn't going to buy himself a drink or five.

The bartender was a short, elderly female with a kind face that reminded him of his mother. "What'choo want?" she asked in a deep, husky voice that had no business coming out of such a tiny creature.

"Something strong." He handed her the money stick and she held it up to the light, as if examining its authenticity.

He was going to protest but thought better of it. He wouldn't put it past the Grandmaster to have given him counterfeit currency.

A yellow-skinned Xandarian man was seated beside him, holding his head up with his hands and trying not to fall asleep. Three empty drink bottles littered the counter in front of him.

"Nice lineup today, eh?" he said when Loki caught his eye.

"Beg your pardon?"

"The girls." He jabbed his thumb behind him at the crowd.

He had missed it at first, but it seemed that the bar served as a staging area for Pixel's "employees," and almost every patron - most of which were male - was paired with an escort of some kind (or two, or three).

"Acceptable, I suppose."

"Best in town," said the Xandarian.

Well that was lucky. "Are they really?"

The man nodded. "Oh yeah. You pay a premium for Pixel's."

If they were good enough for Unnamed Xandarian Drunk, they were probably good enough for the Grandmaster. Well probably not, actually, but he didn't care enough to worry. All he had to do now was find their boss and arrange some sort of business transaction. He scanned the room for anyone that might look like they were in charge.

That was when he made his second mistake.

He noticed her immediately. She was dressed in armor, which was out of place in the lineup of escorts but which seemed relatively normal otherwise. There was something vaguely familiar about her but he couldn't put his finger on it. She was deep in conversation with three other women and he concluded (somehow, for some reason that later on he still could not fathom) that she must be their manager.

He approached her slowly. She stood with her back to him, hands on hips.

"Excuse me," he interrupted, "I'm looking for some... company." That was a thing people said, right?

The woman did not turn around or bother to look at him at all. "I'm sure you are," she muttered.

Well that was just poor customer service. "Let me rephrase that. _The Grandmaster_ is looking for some company."

She turned her head. Again, something about her struck him as familiar. "I don't give a shit what the Grandmaster wants," she said. "I was here first."

"Fine." He sneered at her. "If you don't want my business..."

"What are you talking about?" She looked at Loki, then back at the women she was talking to, and something clicked.

She punched him in the face.

He stumbled backwards, just barely managing not to fall over. It was like being hit with a brick. He pulled out a dagger and launched back at her with what he thought was an impressive ferocity, but she was ready for him. She knocked the dagger out of his hand and somehow was able to get behind him before he had a chance to react. He felt a knee in his back, and as he was thrown to the floor a realization hit him.

She was Asgardian.

She had to be. The clothes, the movements, the expert fighting style that was so very much like his brother's... Very few other beings in the galaxy could manage to get the jump on him so quickly.

He laughed. "I take it you're not interested in my business then?"

"I take it you're the Grandmaster's new pet?" she mocked while pinning him to the ground.

He turned suddenly and threw her off-kilter just long enough to get in a punch, which hit her square in the jaw.

She recovered quickly and the next thing he knew he was clutching a very sensitive area and writhing in pain.

"Do it again, fool," she said. "I dare you."

"Hhhgh."

"ONE-FOUR-TWO!" came a booming voice from the back. It was the bartender. The crowd watched as she hobbled over to them and pointed a stubby little finger in the Asgardian woman's face. "How many times must I tell you? Stop beating up my clients, you ridiculous creature. Get out. OUT!"

The woman leered at the bartender and stormed out the door. The bar's patrons gave her a wide berth as she left.

Loki stood up and brushed himself off. "Thank you," he said to the old woman.

"You get out too. I'm sick of the Grandmaster's lackeys coming in here and demanding this and that."

"I'm not the Grandmaster's-"

"OUT!"

He pondered for a second how horrible it would be to stab a woman that reminded him of his mother in the face, and decided against that particular course of action. Instead, he headed out the door and down the street in pursuit of the Asgardian that had just kicked his ass.

He caught up with her a few blocks away.

"You will regret that," he threatened.

She rolled her eyes. "Are you following me? Look, I don't care who you are - the Big Man's servant or concubine or whatever-"

"I am _not_ a concubine."

She looked him up and down and pointed at his cape. "Paid for those clothes yourself, did you? You do know that the Grandmaster's favorite color is yellow?"

"You're Asgardian," he blurted in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

She twitched slightly. "Not really."

"You can't lie to me. I know an Asgardian when I see one."

She looked as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it. "You're wrong. I'm just a scrapper. Always have been."

"And do all scrappers fight like you do?"

"The good ones do."

"Do you have any idea who you are speaking to? I am Lo-"

"I don't care."

"-ki, _King_ of Asgard. And you will obey-"

She put her face right up to his. "You think you frighten me, slave? What are you going to do, tell the Grandmaster on me? He loves me. If I asked him to decapitate you and put your head on a pike he would do it."

Loki did not back down. "I have no intention of informing the Grandmaster. I can kill you easily enough myself."

A smile spread across her lips that clearly said _go ahead and try._

They stared daggers at each other for what felt like an eternity. Loki's rage eventually abated, replaced with resignation. "So why does the Grandmaster like you so much?"

She shrugged. "I found him his champion."

"Champion?"

"The winner of the last two Contests. Undefeated. He's brutal and violent and terrifying. Puts on a good show. Makes the Grand Daddy a lot of money."

"Sounds revolting. How can you stand to watch something so barbaric? Especially as an Asgardian? Such ridiculousness would never have been tolerated-"

The woman pushed him against a wall with unnatural force and held him there, arm pressed against his throat. She looked murderous. "Don't you DARE presume to tell me about Asgard," she shouted. "I have witnessed things in that gods forsaken place that would put Sakaar to shame. And if you truly were the King you would know that."

She released him and turned away, clearly embarrassed that she had let slip her origins after so heartily denying them. Loki felt like he'd won a victory. But at the same time, he was confused.

"I'll admit we have a history of interventionism," he said, massaging his neck, "but Asgard is nothing like Sakaar. My father-"

"Who is your father?"

Loki hesitated. "Odin," he said finally.

The woman smiled at him in a sinister way. "Then I'm afraid you don't know your father very well at all," she whispered. "Pick up a history book sometime. One that wasn't written by the All-Father or his scribes. You'll see."

She walked away, leaving Loki looking very confused in the middle of the street.


End file.
